


Devil's Triangle

by DixieDale



Category: Clan O'Donnell - Fandom, Garrison's Gorillas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-15
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-08-23 19:45:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 9,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16625297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: Summary:  No one could have foreseen that the actions of two nineteen-year-old American privates could have such an impact on so many lives, on the war itself.  Yet, because of those two young men, there they were, Garrison and his team, headed into an almost certain trap, a trap that seemingly had already cost so many lives.  Will they solve the deadly mystery presented to them by Major Richards?  And even if they do, will they all make it back in one piece, or will they join the so many others who had perished.  Only time would tell.War years





	1. Unfair!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Private Freddie Wilhampton had been very badly treated, which was entirely not fair! So maybe his considered opinion of "just how much of a difference could it really make??!" was a reasonable one. Maybe not to anyone else, of course, but at least, it seemed reasonable to him.

Private Freddie Wilhampton, American - no one particularly important, just a clerk out of a score of other clerks. But, because of his duties, he was a clerk with information on the various aircraft, along with when and where they would be deployed, and much more of use to Professor Alfred Peterman, scientist with a specialty in sonar, electronics and much more. Dr. Peterman had a project, a very important project, and while he might ordinarily deplore the use of a weak tool like Freddie Wilhampton, he intended to do whatever it took to make a success of the project. After all, his contacts in the Luftwaffe were most interested, and if he could prove to them just how well this could work out, he'd been promised a budget with no limits. What more could a true scientist ask? Oh, Professor Alfred Peterman was an American as well, of course, but he was a scientist first and foremost. It would have been incomprehensible to him for it to have been otherwise.

Freddie hadn't been too happy about being caught up in the war; didn't see it was any of his business. Hell, didn't think it would involve him at all, at least not until, without even asking his opinion (!), they lowered the age of the draft. The draft it seemed he had no option but to register for (and how was THAT fair??! He was a Wilhampton, for god's sake, of the western branch of the Boston Wilhamptons, not some stupid slum kid or some dumb farmer!!!).

But now, here he was, far from home, which would be Seattle, Washington, working his tail off and not having much if any fun at all. Hell, at nineteen, in the very prime of his life, he should be having a ball, especially away from the oversight of his perhaps overly-indulgent but also overly-observant parents, but no, not on the miserable little pittance he was given as pay, and not in the out of the way base he'd been assigned to. Still, though he wasn't finding the whole experience much fun, when the hint of an offer came, down at the local pub, from the friendly barmaid, he'd brushed it aside at first. It just seemed like too much work involved for his taste; he already had enough expected of him, in his opinion.

Then, as the weeks went by, when he got lambasted by his immediate superiors for not meeting his deadlines, for not being where he was supposed to be, when he was supposed to be there, for not being overly-accurate in his map and report work, {"after all, how much of a difference could it really make - the Balkans, the Baltics - I mean, whatever!!!"}, and a few other things that he just felt was them being petty and quibbling, his resentment grew and he figured, {"what the hell! They don't appreciate me anyway!"}. So he let that dark-eyed beauty serving drinks know he'd maybe changed his mind. But only if they increased their offer by at least another twenty per cent. He'd half expected to be laughed at, but that didn't happen. Instead, he was given a short list of what would be required in exchange for his 'allowance'. Yes, that was what he intended to call it, his 'allowance'.

Now, he was seen putting much more effort into his job, even eager to pick up some extra duties, lending a hand elsewhere in other departments when the workload got unbalanced, and his supervisors were pleased, thinking their little 'wake up call' had done the trick. Well, in a way, I suppose it had done exactly that.

If Private Wilhampton had a little more money to spread about than before, no one seemed to notice, not then anyway.


	2. A Pattern Forms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some people looked at bits of seemingly unrelated data and saw nothing. Well, nothing of significance. Others? Well, there were some few who saw more, couldn't have helped themselves from seeing more if their life depended on it. In the case of Private Danny Meaghan, it wasn't his own life that depended on his seeing a pattern in those scattered pins. Many, many lives rested on his making sense of that pattern.

Their losses had increased twenty per cent over the past two months, though in war casualties (as in everything else), there were expected ebbs and flows. It took a sharp-eyed budding statistician, (oddly enough, another nineteen-year-old American, though this one from Billings, Montana), working at the humble task of clearing the pins from the map on the side wall, to notice the pattern. Well, young Private Danny Meagan had always had an odd eye for patterns.

Now, before he removed even the first pin, something caught his eye, something that looked oddly familiar. He stepped back, looked, then looked again, and puzzled, went over to the blueprint cabinet where the charts for the past four months were kept - charts detailing the position of those pins before they were cleared each time. Charts he'd studied when he'd been assigned this job a couple of weeks ago, so he would be clear as to what was expected of him. Pulled them, stood puzzling over them. He took long enough that Sergeant Paulsen came in search of him. 

"Private, is there a problem?" Paulsen frowned. This wasn't like Meagan; he was smart and quick, never one to dilly-dally over a task to avoid taking up his next one. Preparing the chart, pulling the pins, putting the various colors in the various boxes - all of that should have taken little enough time. Yes, it was only Meagan's second week on this particular duty, but still, Paulsen hadn't expected any difficulties from him.

Meagan had an odd look on his face, but it was more a worried, slightly puzzled one, rather than an embarrassed one at being caught by his superior officer while goofing off.

"Sergeant, can you look at this? Maybe I'm just seeing something that isn't there, but . . . Have you ever head of Hurricane Alley, or The Devil's Triangle? I mean, it's not in the same general location, of course, but there's just something . . ." 

Thirty minutes later, Sergeant Paulsen was on the phone, urgently requesting the presence of Lieutenant Jonas Arbor. 

Lieutenant Arbor sat at the large table, looking at the overlay Private Meagan had prepared at his request. It was quickly done, but clean and clear; it also seemed irrefutable; the main increase in losses had been in the same area - a highly concentrated area.

"Paulsen, get me the reports on the planes that stopped reporting inside these coordinates or anywhere even NEAR there. Meagan, you give him a hand. Yes, yes, I know you aren't cleared for that level of information, Private; I'll take full responsibility. Move, men!"


	3. Another Piece of the Puzzle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pieces of the puzzle were being assembled, but who could be trusted to put them together into some sort of a picture that made sense??

Recon flights over that area showed nothing out of the ordinary, no wreckage, no scars from a possible crash, nothing. Lieutenant Arbor was almost ready to mark it down to a very odd coincidence, when their losses increased elsewhere. And something peculiar about those losses - there had been no radio transmissions indicating any trouble before the planes seemingly came under attack, and were downed, to the last man. It was almost as if the enemy appeared out of nowhere, and by the time the Allied planes realized they were in danger, it was too late.

So far there had been no survivors, and the Allied forces were left frantically trying to discover just what secret weapon the Axis powers had come up with. Rumors abounded about a new stealth airplane, which was at least more believable than the one about aliens from outerspace. At least, Lieutenant Arbor was really hoping for something as simple as a stealth airplane; the other alternative would really put them in a nightmare zone, one he knew he wasn't capable of dealing with. 

It was only a fluke that they found out the truth as soon as they did, as hard as the truth was to believe. Lieutenant Andrew Brown, Pilot, U S Air Force, had developed engine trouble a few miles out, had to slow his speed to let it recalibrate. He was, therefore, a goodly distance behind the rest of his five-man squad when the attack took place. He got within view just in time to see the last of the planes he'd taken off with go down and their attackers head away at top speed.

He watched in horror, too far away to do anything, his engine still not a hundred per cent. The other four planes, the guys he'd taken off with, had trained with, was buddies with, were just burning piles on the ground below. He fought against his instinct to follow after and attack, take revenge; he knew that, for right now, the most important thing he could do to avenge his buddies was to get back to base. Get back and tell the story even HE was having a hard time believing. "They were our own planes! I swear, it's the truth! Hell, don't you think I recognize our own planes by now??!"

Lieutenant Arbor heard about the report, and somehow knew there was a connection. No, he didn't know HOW he knew, he just did. Like Private Meagan, he was pretty good at spotting patterns, if perhaps not in the same way.

"Our own planes. That's why they don't realize they're coming under attack until it's too late. Those missing planes, that's what they're being used for! What the hell is going on???!"

Another piece of the puzzle was in his hands, but just what to do about it was the question. Arbor leaned back in his chair, thought of his options, and picked up the phone.

"Joe, who do you know who might be able to take on a rather urgent, but decidedly odd problem for us?" A car trip, a meeting in the backroom of a small pub, and the sharing of a few details drew a name from Base Commander Joe Anderson.


	4. A Call For Help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A highly-unlikely situation calls for a highly-unlikely solution. Well, where else would Major Richards look, but to the most unlikely group of men he knows?

"I don't understand, Lieutenant, why you're coming to me. I'm not Air Force." Major Kevin Richards really was puzzled; this wasn't something that would normally cross his desk.

"Yes, and we understand that, Major. However, we're not really sure who we can trust within our own ranks. This information on the outgoing planes had to be obtained from inside sources; the planes that went missing were from a cluster of three bases, all handled pretty much by the same logistical teams. The planes that have been shot down, without sufficient explanation, they were from the same groups. Normally we would have felt it sufficient to exclude anyone from that area, but you know how things get crossed, people get transferred around. My superiors felt it was best to go totally outside the normal channels. They've been told that you have some unusual and very talented connections. We'd like you to take a run at this, before it turns into even more of a disaster than it already is."

Later, in a small office in the monstrosity generally known as the Mansion, "you ARE a qualified pilot, Lieutenant Garrison. And this whole thing is just off-beat enough that your team just might be able to make headway when no one else has managed. Our recons come back shrugging their shoulders. A discreet look at the logistical teams, the bases in question, turns up nothing to point a finger at who, much less how. And, yes," Richards admitted with a reluctant sigh, "I expect you will need help from our mutual friends. While Ian O'Donnell is not under Contract, I have a feeling he might be willing to venture forth, and he IS an excellent pilot. I am well aware that the Clan looks kindly upon you and your men. I wouldn't be surprised if there weren't others willing to lend a hand." He wasn't happy with that, mind you, but was starting to realize he might as well accept the reality of it all. 

Garrison mused, "what they're doing, yeah, I get that, Major. It's smart, and it's effective. It's also something we can't really defend against easily. We let the word get out, we've got our guys blasting away at each other, thinking they're the enemy, or too cautious, letting those decoy planes blast them anyway. Code words might help in the short-term, but you know as well as I do that those are only good for one run, and if someone's delayed in getting back, still using the old code word, you're back to us shooting each other out of the sky. Hell, the Germans won't have to do anything but sit back and watch us finish each other off, especially if they keep adding more planes into the mix!"

He frowned, took another sip from his glass, noting Richards must really want his help; this was damned fine whiskey!

"Alright, give me everything you've got. We'll take a run at it," he finally replied, and Richards laid out every scrap of information he'd been able to pull together. The British major left, wondering if he'd just done something extremely smart, or something extremely stupid. He often got that feeling when involving Garrison and his crew, never mind the O'Donnell's. Sometimes he was left pondering that question even after the whole thing was over.

Garrison sat for awhile, going over the not-nearly-adequate file in front of him, then closed it, and headed up to the Common Room. "Alright, listen up! We've got a job to do."

He laid it out, taking note of the looks of incredulity turning to a variety of other looks, none too encouraging. Casino spoke for everyone when he groaned, "yer just bound and determined to get us all killed, aint ya, Warden??!"


	5. A Relaxing Vacation On A Lovely, Picturesque French Island

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A plan formed, ready to be put into action. Somehow, though, Garrison's description just didn't impress them. "A relaxing vacation on a lovely, picturesque French island." Yeah, right!

"Wreckers."

That single word, spoken by Sergeant Major Gil Rawlins, had seemed to mean something significant to Ian and Meghada, from the looks of understanding and agreement on their faces, if not to the others in the room gathered around that table. 

Ian frowned, "using what as a lure, though? And where?"

And most of the others clambered for an explanation that actually "makes some sense, maybe???"

Gil was an East Ender, but his mother had been from the coast, and had told plenty of tales of the wreckers, those who took the concept of 'free salvage' one step farther than intended, actually trying to lure ships onto rocky shoals to cause the ships to founder and capsize, leaving their cargo adrift for easy gathering (and their unfortunate crews food for the fishes). There were those who doubted the veracity of those old stories, claimed they were just something made up by over-imaginative writers, or excuses made up by shipping lines to account for a higher than usual number of shipwrecks (thus absolving them of any responsibility), but his mother had told them as truth, and he'd seen no reason to doubt her. He now explained, with the two O'Donnells adding in what they knew on the subject, them as well accepting as truth the old stories. 

"Obviously not lighthouse lights; a plane would have no reason to even take much note of those. There's no reason they would cause a pilot to make an unscheduled landing, nor to fail to radio their situation." They talked and talked, but came up with little that made any sense in that direction, so they sat that aside for the moment and switched to another part of the puzzle.

Meghada pulled the map closer to her, taking a long look at the lines enclosing the coordinates, using a pencil to increase them by another quarter.

"Somewhere in here. Somewhere where they can go unnoticed. But where do you bring down that many airplanes, safely, WITHOUT being noticed?" Her fingers traced the lines, lingering on the islands off the coast. "Perhaps, just perhaps. Just how much runway do the missing planes need to land safely, to then take off again later?" 

Garrison had some of that information, a quick call gave them the rest.

"So, we can eliminate these," Ian said, lightly marking through all but two of the islands in the area. "But these two, they might just work." 

Actor shook his head, tapping one of the islands, "not this one. It is far too heavily populated, the temperatures there being moderated greatly by the passing Gulf Stream. The other, though, is not nearly as hospitable, a very rocky perimeter, although the interior has a long fairly clear valley; as I recall, it is totally unpopulated. I believe it would be there, if anywhere." 

Garrison gave a firm nod, got an all too familiar smile on his face, "so, guys. How about a nice relaxing vacation on a lovely, picturesque French island???" 

Casino spoke for the lot of them, "yeah, right, Warden. Gonna get our asses shot off, that's how 'relaxing' it's gonna be!"


	6. Going Down!!!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the plane carrying Garrison and Actor suddenly falters and goes in for an emergency landing, everyone can only hold their breath and hope for the best. What will they find when the dust clears?

How Kevin Richards managed to lay his hands on a plane of the right designation, no one knew, though he had reassured them that he could, just as he managed their back-up story. Garrison and Actor, pilot and co-pilot, had headed to the largest of the bases that had been affected, their scheduled departure by plane being handled in the regular manner as all the others. Hopefully, since their supposed mission was going to take them right through the suspect area, the culprits would take the bait.

Ian and the others headed to the coast of France, enough in advance to split into two groups, Goniff and Chief partnering, with Casino and Meghada forming the other. Ian was to remain behind, much to his annoyance, watching with long-view binoculars, monitoring the radio frequency of the plane, and guarding the plane in which he'd flown them there. He watched them launch those small boats, wishing he was going along, but knowing he had a job to do right there. 

He hadn't been expecting it, not really, despite all their speculation before, not when there had been nothing from the plane, no distress signal of any kind on the frequency he was monitoring. When he saw the plane falter, then stall entirely, he desperately spun the dials, trying to get something, anything! Then, he heard it, on a frequency well away from where it should have been. "Going down, going down! Headed for that long strip near the east side of the island! If anyone's down there, get the hell out of our way, cause this might not be pretty!" 

Ian watched breathless, knowing he wouldn't be able to see the plane once it dropped too far, but hoping NOT to see flames that would indicate a crash. When enough time had gone by to rule that out, he quickly sent a coded message to those waiting much farther away. If this all went wrong, still the Allies would know where the problem rested, at least for now. Of course, if whatever had been used to bring down the plane was portable, he wasn't sure how long that information would be of benefit. For now, he was stuck, waiting and watching. {"Damn, Meghada is right! Waiting, on the outskirts, is a hell of a lot harder than being in the thick of things!"}

In the small boats, hearts were in their throats, watching, waiting. "Ruddy 'ell, looks like they made it down in one piece, anyway!" Goniff exclaimed, trying to get his errant heart under control.

"Yeah, maybe. Won't know for sure til we get in closer," Chief said, ominously. 

"Coo, Chiefy! Who do you think you are, Casino??" Goniff complained. Usually it was the safecracker with the grim outlook and all the dire warnings.

In the other boat, Meghada shuddered, "alright, let's head in, Casino, closer to shore. Carefully, quietly."


	7. The World's Leading Expert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrison would be held for questioning by the Germans, along with another pilot, but Actor had been deemed 'unnecessary', and consigned to suffer the same fate as the others who'd been brought down on this island. Was there to be yet another body joining those who now rested in Davy Jones' Locker?

Garrison was sweating, breathing heavily, and Actor not in any better condition. Well, at least now they knew what had happened to the missing planes, if not the technical aspects of it. Still, there was nothing like having the engine sputter and then die, the dials all go crazy, and the radio frequency they were supposed to be on raise nothing but silence, to get the pulse racing. The landing wasn't as rough as he'd figured it would be, the two of them only getting shaken up, a little battered but not seriously injured. Still, the sight of those armed men in green and gray camouflage spilling out to surround the plane didn't reassure either of them a hell of a lot. One quickly thrown smoke and chemical-filled bomb and they both fell to the ground, unconscious.

"Actor?" Garrison groaned, holding his aching head.

"Right here, Craig. And may I introduce Lieutenant Connery? It seems he was caught in the same snare just prior us." 

Garrison looked at the stocky man in the RAF uniform. "Just you?" 

Connery swallowed hard, "my co-pilot and myself. Our host decided they didn't need Michaels. They threw him over the cliffs into the sea, the same way they've seemingly disposed of anyone else they deemed of no use. I rather imagine I'm next in line for that."

A voice from the hallway outside their cell disclaimed that idea, "oh, I don't think so, Lieutenant Connery. There is a Luftwaffe officer on his way here now, to take over the questioning of Lieutenant Garrison and yourself; they seem rather excited at the prospect. Seems they think you might be able to supply them with rather valuable information. That one, however," nodding congenially at Actor, "is only cluttering up the place."

The armed men entering the cell were quite forceful in their determination to haul Actor out, and soon Garrison and Connery were left alone, cursing, nursing the bruises they'd gained in the unequal battle.

"Do you know just what the hell is going on around here?" Garrison growled, and the tone in which Connery answered wasn't any smoother.

"Only that they're snaring airplanes, for some reason or other. There was another pilot in here when Michaels and I got pulled in, but he disappeared within a few hours. I got the impression from what little I heard, it's not a totally new operation." 

Garrison dragged his mind away from Actor, knowing there was nothing he could do, hoping against hope that the con-man would be able to find a way to get free. For now, he had to set aside any thoughts of what they intended for the tall Italian and concentrate on learning all he could about the situation. He'd already tried the lock on the door, but it was made well, and positioned that he couldn't even make a try at picking it. 

"What can you tell me, every little detail?" And he sat back and listened, grimly taking note of everything Connery had managed to find out. It wasn't a lot, but he did get some idea of the layout of the building, and the possible location of whatever equipment they'd used to bring down the plane.

Along with the location of the radio transmitter, since Connery had been with the guy in charge, "that would be Doctor Alfred Peterman. Said that as if I was supposed to know the name. Was a trifle put out that I'd never heard of him. It would appear, at least according to him, he is the world's leading expert on sonar, radar, electronic transmissions, and nearly everything else in that line."

Garrison's gaze was deadly serious. "If he can pull airplanes out of the sky, he just might be everything he says he is."

He told Connery what had been happening, what those hijacked planes were being used for. He could tell by the baleful look in the pilot's eyes, that Connery would be beside him every step of the way, doing whatever he could to foil the scheme before more men died, to avenge the deaths of the men who had already died.


	8. Deep Waters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frankly, before this was all over, Goniff wasn't the only one who'd scratched 'swimming' off their 'favorite things to do' list.

Actor waited for his chance, none too confident that such a chance would come, especially with the contingent of six men escorting him. He took some comfort in that his hands weren't cuffed, only lightly bound with rope; he just might be able to twist his hands free if given enough time.

But time was one thing he didn't have. He realized that when a door was opened, and they all stepped out into the bright sunshine and cool air. It was only a dozen steps or so, til they were reached lands end, with the ocean immediately below. A quick glance told him there was only a sheer drop, not even the slightest of vegetation to try and make a grab for, and a quick glance was all he had time for before he was shoved forward, to fall toward the water below. The only thing he WAS able to do was to twist his hands free of the ropes on his way down, and turn his body so as to hopefully not break his neck or spine on impact.

"SHIT!!" Casino exclaimed, while Meghada didn't even bother with that. As one, they dove over the side of the boat they'd slid into that small cutout at the base of the cliff, swimming til they approached the place they'd seen Actor disappear under the surface. As one, they dove deep, hoping they would reach the man in time. 

Goniff and Chief were too far away to do anything but wait anxiously for any signs of life. They heaved a deep sigh of relief when three heads broke the surface, and again watched as, with some effort, Meghada and Casino got an obviously injured Actor back in the small boat. 

"Now w'at the ruddy 'ell do we do??? That was Actor, but no sign of the Warden, so 'e's still in there." 

"You know the Warden, Goniff. He's gonna be headed for the target, just like always. But I think maybe he could use a little help. Wanna go for a swim?" 

Goniff groaned; swimming, especially in deep water with who knows what might be in there, just wasn't something he wanted to do. Somehow, his little experience up at Loch Ness had really put him off the whole notion of swimming entirely.

"Think we can get in a little closer, first, Chiefy? Don't really want to end up a snack for w'atever might be in there," he swallowed deeply. This whole mission made him queasy, and deep water didn't please his stomach any better than flying did.

Chief took a long look over the wide expanse and slowly nodded, "probably should. Aint gonna do the Warden any good we get eaten before we get there." Goniff gave him a narrow-eyed look showing he didn't think much of that comment, not if it'd been intended for reassurance. 

They had to go in at a slant, keeping as much cover as they could between themselves and any possible lookouts. They'd covered three quarters of the distance in the small boat when a head popped up, coughed and gave them a quiet, if friendly, "lovely day for a swim, isn't it?" 

"Meghada! W'at the 'ell??! You was way over there!" 

"Yes, and more than happy to be way over here. Here, give me a hand up, will you? Those are not pleasant waters. If tourism ever takes off here, after the war, they are going to have to do some serious clean-up first. We found the other pilots and crew down there; at least, I assume that's who they are, or what remains of them." Goniff gulped, and saw that Chief was having a little trouble with his stomach as well. 

"Actor and Pappy?" 

"Casino is taking Actor to Ian; he didn't do himself any good in that header off the cliff; then Casino will head back. It's all up in the air now, guys. Let's see if we can pull a fluffy rabbit out of this hat."

"Lovely! Chiefy 'ere turns into Casino, looking on the 'bright' side. Then you turn into the Warden with the 'lets go pull off the impossible'!" That little bit of muttered commentary brought a snort of amusement from both of Goniff's companions. They knew he'd be right beside them all the way, he just had to gripe about it a little first.

 

Actor was still curled up on his side, gagging up water, striving not to gag up anything else. It wasn't easy. He'd gone down far below the surface, and when he made himself open his eyes to try and get oriented to head back up, he'd seen something he had perhaps been expecting, but hoped not to find. Bodies, most of them having served as partial meals for whatever predators swam in these waters. He forced himself to focus, ignoring all else, searching for the sun's glare that would point him in the right direction. His body didn't want to cooperate, though he'd been lucky enough to have enough time to have filled his lungs with their full capacity of air before he hit the water. A shadow, movement, then another shadow moving in fast from behind, and he knew he was finished.

{"I just hope the others get to you, Craig, before you join me here!"} and he tried to turn to meet his fate face to face. And if his mind couldn't quite understand, accept what he saw, that was alright. There would be time enough for that later. Somehow, now there would be time.

In the boat, he'd gagged, then vomited over the side til he was bringing up blood. Finally, he looked at his companion, "if I ever mention again that you are not particularly attractive, Casino, feel free to hit me. Right now I can honestly say you are one of the most beautiful sights I've ever seen."} 

Casino snorted, "yeah, I'll remind you of that, later, Beautiful. Come on, gotta get you back to dry land." 

Actor stared over the blank expanse, "do you think she'll make it?"

Casino shrugged, not in indifference, but in resignation. "Wasn't like I coulda stopped her. We both know Chief and Goniff are gonna head in to try and back up the Warden; she's not gonna sit here on her ass while they're doing it. Come on, sooner I get you back to Ian, the sooner I can get back there myself." Actor had what looked like a broken shoulder; he was in no condition to go back in himself, and he reluctantly sat back and did as he was told. For now, that was all he could do.


	9. "Yeah, Well, What Did Ya Expect?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just when it should have been over, it WASN'T over. Well, Casino could have told everyone that, right in the beginning. With Garrison, nothing was ever simple or easy.

Garrison wanted to spit in the ever-so-superior Doctor Peterman's face, but settled for a cold impassivity. Losing his temper was a danger, and not beneficial to his goals. Yes, goals. Destroying this installation and the equipment that was preying on their airplanes and personnel; making the Luftwaffe think this was a failed experiment, one not worth repeating; and hopefully, tearing out Doctor Peterman's throat and watching him bleed out. (His father had always told him a man should have solid goals; well, hopefully, maybe, for once, for maybe the ONLY time, he would be successful in living up to his father's expectations.) In that order, of course, those goals, but really, really hoping he'd be able to achieve that last one. He really, really wanted that. Somehow, he thought the Dragon's feelings and desires were encapsulated in there, somewhere. No matter how anyone else would have viewed the matter, to him, that was good; that felt right.

"Now, now, Lieutenant. There's no sense glaring at me. The outcome of this war is obvious to anyone with any intelligence. You might as well accept it and make the proper mental adjustments. Now, as I was saying, . . ."

Garrison listened with only part of his mind, the rest taking in every piece of information, every tiny speck of data he could, in the hopes of using it all to overcome Doctor Peterman's ultimate goal. To think that he was doing all of this just to get funding for his scientific studies. It was beyond disgusting, it was Faustian, and he couldn't help expressing that thought to an obviously amused Peterman. 

"Oh, come now, Lieutenant. Are you really that naive?? Or perhaps just that uneducated? Science is the wave of the future; well, science or pseudo-science, and the ability to manipulate the stupid sheep that make up the majority of the people that inflict this earth! All that nonsense about morality, ethics! Truth is what the most powerful SAY it is! Ethics and Morality are much the same! And Reality? It is whatever we can convince the gaping populace of! I find it hard to believe you actually BELIEVE in such nonsense! Even Science is open to wide interpretation, you know. You fool! Science is meant for the betterment of the powerful, and the masses never need to know the truth of the matter. Even Truth is a matter of opinion, if you look at it in the right manner."

Looking into the eyes of the 'clear-thinking' self-absorbed sociopath in front of him, Garrison found himself wanting to throw up whatever little remained in his stomach. He though of the contempt his men faced in HQ, and how much morality and humanity they exhibited on a daily basis, in comparison to this supposedly educated and ever-so-superior scientist. He felt blessed, if that was a perhaps inappropriate {"maybe 'inadequate' word"}, for having known the men on his team, understanding the deep level of humanity that ran within each of them. 

The questioning hadn't really started yet, Doctor Peterman waiting for the 'experts' flying in to take over that little chore. Still, Peterman was an egotist, thrilling at a chance to parade his brilliance before an audience. It hadn't taken but a little prodding, a few subtle hints, a little encouragement, before the good doctor was showing off his technical expertise, in the actual room where all the equipment was located. He and Lieutenant Connery listened, watched, took careful notice, as Peterman beamed at them, preening himself.

"And this is the beacon. It ever so gently 'urges' an aircraft off its flight pattern, brings it here instead. This, this is the disrupter. It automatically engages once the aircraft is within range, as does this, the transmitter interference module. Once that reaches peak levels, no radio transmissions can get through, at least not on any frequencies the aircraft is likely to be attempting; in fact, it forces those transmissions into a different frequency automatically. So, Lieutenant Garrison, do you not agree that mine is a tour de force of achievement??" 

Garrison had been expanding the span of his pacing, letting Peterman gradually get used to his nervous movements. The door had opened, and Peterman and the guards spun around, and a fast lunge had sent the nearest guard's gun flying. Garrison had looked with triumph at Connery, then the two of them prepared to give Peterman and the guards the fight of their lives. At least in the probably short amount of time they had left. 

The odds became much more even when a rather battered group of men and one woman burst through the door.

"Hell, we knew it! How come you never get into fights with just ONE guy, Warden? Ya gotta take on a half-dozen before you feel it's worth it?" Casino groused, even as he dove in to take down the largest of the guards. It didn't take long, though they found it hadn't been a complete success.

Dr Peterman was furiously triumphant, "too late, Lieutenant! The journal, it has the diagrams, my experiments, my success; it is all on the way to the Luftwaffe as we speak! You've accomplished nothing! They will see the value; they will find me and free me, no matter how well you think to hide me. Fools, stupid, ignorant fools!" 

While Peterman refused to elaborate on that journal, the particulars involved in the handing it off to the Germans, the discovery of Peterman's assistant, found quivering in the next room over, hoping to escape notice, had changed things. Surprisingly enough, or maybe not, it hadn't taken too long for Chief and Meghada to 'convince' him to identify the messenger who carried the vital data, and his intended route. Peterman's furious lunge for Garrison accomplished only his ending up on the wrong end of Chief's knife. It was the last mistake he would ever make.

The captured underlings were locked away into the cells below the structure. A crew would be here within hours to take the men into custody. In the meantime, Lieutenant Connery and the others would stand guard over them. Later would come the airstrike destroying anything and everything remaining here. Unfortunately that would include the plane Garrison and Actor had used to fly here; it seems Peterman's equipment had caused various systems to no longer function in the way they were intended. Perhaps they could have gotten some of the underlings to fix that, but no one was intending to put any trust in them, not and risk their lives in the plane afterwards.

Garrison had outlined that plan, and the men had all exchanged knowing looks. Lieutenant Connery was more than slightly bewildered by the "come on, Warden, can't we just go 'ome now?? Just 'ow much ruddy excitement do you think you need, ei??? I know I'VE 'ad just about all the 'relaxing vacation on a lovely picturesque French island' that I can stand," from the smaller blond man rubbing at the bruises he'd gotten in that fight for possession of this facility.

That only got a wry smile from the officer, and a surprisingly warm-tinged response, which surprised Connery, especially considering the man had just blatantly questioned the orders of his commanding officer. 

"Yes, you're headed home, Goniff; vacation's over. But don't complain I never take you anywhere special," and Garrison waited for the expected laughter.

Connery was looking at Goniff as if he weren't at all bright; after all, Garrison had just finished telling the men the plane would be arriving with the mop-up crew and the team would head home on the same plane. What on earth was he complaining about? Why was he acting so put-upon?

"And you? You telling me you're gonna be getting on that plane with us, ei, with that journal still wandering around somewhere?" came the skeptical reply, complete with an arch look. Garrison looked uncomfortable at the snorts of laughter from around the room.

"Look, these guys know this facility; we don't, and there could be some strays still running around. Connery has been through the mill; HE can't be expected to guard them alone. I need all of you to stay back and help him. I can't let that journal get too far; the messenger already has a head start. This is just too important," Garrison argued. 

Now Connery understood; his men obviously knew Garrison inside and out, knew he wouldn't be going back with them, wouldn't leave without trying to grab that journal.

Casino looked at the others, then at Connery. "He's got a point. Don't look like we got much choice." That got reluctant nods from the others. 

Things were organized, the strays hopefully all rounded up and tucked into those underground cells. One by one, Connery looked at the men sipping at their cups of coffee. He'd raised an inquiring brow at Casino, getting only an amused harrumph in return. "Yeah, well, what did ya expect?" 

Ian had flown the small plane in earlier, left Actor to be picked up with the others in the larger plane. Garrison had settled into the co-pilot spot, given Ian his marching orders and they took off.

They had just landed, Garrison getting out and striding toward the vehicle waiting. He was halfway there when he heard the footsteps behind him. Very familiar footsteps. Two sets. He groaned and turned, "and what the hell do you think you're doing??!"

Goniff wrinkled up his nose, and scratched his jaw, "didn't think we were gonna let you go off all on your own, did you? Gonna get yourself killed doing stuff like that." 

Meghada didn't bother answering, just giving Garrison an inquiring look, then finally spoke, prodding him. "Well, weren't you in a hurry, Lieutenant? Shouldn't we be going?" 

He gave them both a dirty look, but turned on his heel and made his way to the car, his two companions just a step or two behind. He didn't even have to turn around to picture Goniff's grin of triumph, not when he heard that chuckle from the woman. He'd never let them see that grin on his own face, the one acknowledging just how much it meant to have them there, backing him up.

So it was left to Garrison and Meghada and Goniff to track that messenger, and track him they would, until that ever-so-damning journal was in their hands.


	10. Mission Accomplished, But With A New Goal In Sight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prize was just out of their reach, snatched away from their eager fingers time and again by fate and bad luck. Now, the moment was at hand, success just a breath away. Will success be theirs? Especially since Meghada has just locked onto a new goal of her own.

Close, so close, but each time someone, something interferred with their target, that small red journal. Onwards and onwards, they followed the messenger from town to town, eventually from Saint-Prieste to Lyon, and from there to a small recuperative hospital near Dardilly to the north. Luckily for them, the messenger was not there to deliver the journal to its ultimate recipients, but apparently merely to take the unexpected opportunity to visit his sister, who had married a local wine-grower who had donated the land for the hospital. They weren't CERTAIN of that, though, and Meghada headed toward the hospital, attired in that crisp uniform Goniff had managed to steal in one of their many stops, to take a quick look around.

It would perhaps have been difficult to get close enough to that sprawling farm house, but the farmer, his family and his newly-arrived guest weren't there anyway, not anymore. Garrison and Goniff had watched as they loaded up a wagon, and made their way to the hospital. Now, they were in the sprawling courtyard of the hospital, laying out a feast-day celebration. Garrison noted the messenger was still wearing that same coat, the one he'd been carrying that damned journal in all this long way.

There were children playing off to the side, skipping games, a ball being tossed, and glory! a makeshift twirl-around being spun to the delight of the children sitting along the sides clinging to the hold-bars on the flat surface, shrieking their glee as a couple of the older ones stood along side and pushed with all their might to see how fast they could make it go. It was fortuitous that Goniff's injuries were still apparent (him always one to bruise easily and quickly), "a fall, his back, for the most part, you know; nothing major, but still . . . ", enough there was no problem getting the two of them past that front door for perhaps a quick look-over by one of the local doctors later, and them being invited to join the festivities in the meantime. 

Goniff's having tempted those children with a sly grin and cocked brow and a coin or two had led to him stretched out and being spun along with the rest on that twirl-around. When they finally stopped, giggling, he was more than a little green; well, it wasn't so difficult for him to get in that condition and that WAS what he was striving for. Garrison just hoped the twitchy-stomached man didn't throw up along the way, and that an opportunity for the snatch came before that lovely green faded away. They needed to do this carefully, without drawing undue, or at least, unexplainable, attention. 

After a goodly sampling of the farm's products, bread, ham, cheese, and such lovely, hearty, potent wine, the messenger had become careless, and the chance came to make the snatch. Goniff was too far away, but Garrison had been right along side when the man had tossed his coat over a chair, the faint trace of red showing at the rim of the pocket. {"Finally!"}. But at the last possible moment, the man started to turn, laughing at something his brother-in-law had said. There was no way he'd miss what Garrison was doing!

Garrison froze, his hand within an inch of that damned journal. Seeing the danger and acting on the spur of the moment, the still green-faced Goniff put their back-up plan into action. He groaned loudly and staged a sudden relapse, causing a very effective distraction. 

The journal now safely inside his shirt, Garrison watched helplessly as his resident pickpocket, now groaning on the ground, was rushed away for "a special treatment that should take care of the problem once and for all. A bit experimental yet, at least with us, but it does seem to be having some good results. Not everybody approves, of course; some thinks it beyond what is acceptable, but it IS effective!" 

Garrison had been highly suspect of the knowing looks that had accompanied that statement, but had little recourse. Knowing he couldn't do anything, not without blowing the whole thing, his worried green eyes met frightened but resolved blue ones, both dreading but accepting of whatever the immediate future might hold. It would pretty much depend on whether this recuperative hospital was what it purported to be, or whether it was something quite different. 

He was inside now, journal resting uneasily under his shirt, waiting impatiently in the room where supposedly Goniff would be brought whenever that 'treatment' was completed. It had better be soon, before that messenger realized the journal was gone. Garrison wanted them all away and gone before that happened, though the odds were looking increasingly poor of that happening.

Meghada returned from her foray into the offices, slightly officious look on her face not out of line with that crisp uniform she was wearing; a quick word with one of the orderlies had her brought into the room to wait with him. Seeing he was alone, she looked, but didn't speak, all the questions she was dreading the answers to. He wanted to reassure her, but frankly, he couldn't. Oh, he had that damned journal, had signaled that to her, just as she'd signaled she had found nothing out of the way in her search. But that wasn't her primary question, and for that question to be answered, they could only wait.

Though seemingly a lifetime, it was probably only an hour and a half after he'd been taken away that he was returned, on a rolling bed, face turned away, moaning slightly under his breath. The fact that there were no men with guns coming with him to take them into custody seemed to indicate he hadn't given away any information, but just what had been done to him??

Meghada and Garrison hurried toward him. The older of the orderlies chuckled and smiled at their evident concern. "Don't worry, he's fine. The treatment can have a few after-effects, he'll be drowsy for a little while. A few sips of water will bring him around well enough.

Meghada had snarled, "what was done to him?" 

The orderly looked a little taken aback by her tone, but answered willingly enough, "Dr. Norlstrum says it's a combination of Swedish massage, some oriental massage methods, and a mild relaxant - about the equivalent of a shot of Calvados, I'd imagine. Your friend rather embarrassed himself, I understand, but that's hardly unusual. Seems it happens more often than not, at least with the male patients. The females seem to get equally good results, but perhaps not in the same manner and not quite so, um, apparent. Rather an Amazon, well over six feet tall, all told, the doctor is, but truly wonderful hands, she has. She does a marvelous job. It's rather amazing the number of those seeking aid with muscle strains and back ailments we've started having around here, once the word got out about how Dr. Norlstrum was looking to try out a few new techniques. I had a slight pull from moving gurneys and it was a rather remarkable experience, the help she was able to give me," the smile on his face evidence that he had indeed found it so.

"Dr. Norlstrum?" Meghada asked.

"Yes, Dr. Birget Norlstrum."

"Please, I believe I need to meet the good doctor; can you arrange that?" Meghada was quick to ask. The orderly nodded agreeably, but Garrison was greatly concerned. Meghada was highly unpredictable, and where Goniff was concerned? Oh lordy!

He thought to caution her, tried to get her to change her mind about that 'meeting'. A quick whisper, "Meghada, whatever you're thinking, you can't go bracing her! We've a mission to complete; we've got to get out of here!"

"Brace her? Hardly, Craig! Sweet Mother, did you see the look on his face? I want to see if she gives lessons!!!!

Garrison remembered that look of total relaxation, that utterly loopy grin on Goniff's face, and somehow couldn't find any fault with Meghada's intentions. Not a single one. In fact, if the good Dr. Norlstrum needed another patient, he wouldn't mind being the next to step forward. Of course, they still had to get that journal back to HQ, but perhaps a quick stop in the medical unit wouldn't put them too far behind? 

Quickly he shook himself, pushing temptation aside. "Meghada, get him up and ready to move. We're out of here." He gave her a slight rueful smile, "maybe we can look her up after the war." 

Meghada harrumphed at him. For someone with the level of skills Dr. Birgit Norlstrum obviously had, this small hospital was no place. No, there were many better places, and she was sure she could find them. Perhaps one a not too distant traveling distance from Brandonshire. She'd see if she couldn't get the Clan to work on that.


	11. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The whole unlikely situation had been turned around, though not without the loss of far too many good men. Those left standing, well, it had an impact on each of them, one that would change the course of their lives. Well, for most of them anyway.

Epilogue:

*The former Private Danny Meaghan (now Specialist Danny Meaghan) was quietly but eagerly taken into the tight ranks of the logistical and strategic Specialists, welcomed as a brother geek who saw patterns where everyone else saw, well, pretty much nothing. Well, the geeks pretty much knew how pretty much clueless 'everyone else' was. After the war, while he continued to make valuable contributions in that field of endeavor, his real claim to fame came from his 'hobby', creating a long series of adventure comics. Those at The Cottages were more than a little amused when Randy brought home one titled, "Dead Man's Island", and asked, "Da, wasn't this one of those jobs you and Dad and the others 'andled during the war? Sounds awfully familiar, you know."

*Private Freddie Wilhampton. Well, what could you say about that enterprising young man? Even Lieutenant Connery could only say, in a display of open bewilderment, "a freak accident! Yes, they happen, I know, but I really can't imagine how he managed to drown in that small amount of water! It was scarcely more than a puddle!" There were no witnesses to the accident, but everyone agreed it was a shame. Lieutenant Andrew Brown spoke a few words at the memorial, ending with the sad comment, "with him dying so young, we really have no idea of where his potential and initiative might have led him; we only know what he managed to accomplish during his time with us." After the funeral, Specialist Danny Meaghan joined Lieutenant Brown and Lieutenant Connery for a drink, at their special invitation; it wasn't long before Sergeant Paulsen and Lieutenant Arbor joined them, and it was with a solemn exchange of nods, they raised a glass in honor of those who had not made it home. Lieutenant Connery ordered another round, and this time the toast was equally heartfelt. "To Private Freddie Wilhampton. May the afterlife bring him everything he so richly deserves."

*Doctor Birget Norlstrum, newly-appointed Head Physical Therapist at a small private hospital in London, was considered an absolute marvel, appreciated, and indeed adored by all and sundry, all six foot, five inches of her. And, yes, to the delight of all, she DID give lessons!

*Lieutenant Connery and Lieutenant Brown, sole survivors of the infamous plot, (other than Garrison and his crew, of course) gained newfound resolve, and together they fought the Axis powers to the end. They never forgot those who had been lost, but after going to offer their condolences to the Michaels twins - sisters to Lieutenant Connery's lost co-pilot - they found a new purpose, and later, the four of them found quiet solace together on a small farm in the Midwest.

*As for Garrison and his crew of wild cards, they would continue the battle, trying to survive and keep each other alive, hoping, though perhaps not knowing quite what they were hoping for. 

*And Meghada? Things hadn't changed all that much for her; she would still do whatever it took to protect what had been given to her to cherish and protect.


	12. Afterword

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chief asked, "wonder what the Warden's gonna say?" Funny thing was, Garrison never said a word, refused to even discuss the whole thing.

Dr. Birget, as everyone now called her, did indeed give lessons in her special massage techniques. It would have been hard to say who was more pleased, Dr. Birget at being asked, the student at being given a chance to study with someone so skilled, or the individual selected to be the 'patient'. 

Meghada was one of the first in line, and that was deemed only right, since it was thru her machinations that the good doctor found her way to that small private hospital in London. That Goniff would be selected to be the 'patient' only made sense as well, considering the redhead tended to make most people a little nervous, with her temper and unpredictability. Well, Goniff was fine with that; he'd certainly had no complaints the first time he'd experienced the doctor's treatment, and could only imagine what it would be like to have a combination of Meghada's natural talents enhanced by her learning the doctor's skills as well. Oh, he took some ragging by the guys, but he brushed those aside as being mere jealousy. Besides, he wouldn't mind learning some of that stuff himself; it looked more than a little interesting.

After three lessons, however, he held up his hands in defeat. "So I told 'er, 'No, I'm sorry, 'Gaida, I can't. Pick someone else this time, will you?' Told 'er I'd check with one of you guys, send one of you along in my place.' 

The other guys looked at him like he was crazy. 

"Goniff, you feeling alright?" Casino frowned in disbelief. "You really want one a us taking your place like that??" 

Chief and Actor were just as incredulous, and Garrison starting to get a little worried. "Is there a problem? Something I should know about?" 

"No, Warden, nothing like that. Just, aint in the mood for a treatment today. Say, YOU do it instead. You were saying you wanted to give it a try. Just the right opportunity, that's what I say! Imagine 'Gaida would be right pleased!"

Garrison HAD been nursing a few pulled muscles after that last mission, and didn't protest too hard, just headed up to London. He hoped Meghada wouldn't be too annoyed.

Back at the Mansion, Casino was still giving Goniff a hard time. Finally, with a deep flush, the Englishman had explained. 

"Aint getting any younger, Casino. It's one thing when you're laying stretched out on that table, getting all the attention. Feels ruddy wonderful, to tell the truth. There's this one spot on the back, seems if it's done just right, well, it's a good thing you aint wearing nothing but a sheet, and laying on a bunch of towels." That got a questioning look, then an outburst of laughter as they realized what he was saying. 

"So, did the doc get pissed at you, or was it Meghada?"

"No, the doctor says it's perfectly natural, to be expected, even, if you do it right. And 'Gaida, she accepted that, no problem. THEN, the doctor made 'Gaida give it a try, to be sure she'd picked up on the technique, and she 'ad, no doubt about it. So, there I was again, really 'appy about those towels."

Actor frowned, "then what IS the problem, Goniff?"

The slender Englishman gave them a sheepish grin. "It was after, you know. I'd mentioned I wanted to learn some of that myself, so the doctor 'ad 'Gaida strip down and get on the table with just that sheet, and started showing me w'at was w'at, so to speak. It WAS really interesting, but then it started getting to me. The doctor, she's always said she can't work all bundled up, so she's got this tie around 'er fore'ead, keeping 'er 'air back, and this little skimpy thing across 'er chest, and these little short pants. Well, you've seen 'er, nothing wrong with the way she's built. Taller than you, Actor, quite a bit, and the rest of 'er, pretty much in line, you know? So, 'Gaida's laying there, all shiny from the special oils the doctor uses, getting 'erself massaged, letting out these little moans. The doctor's all shiny from the effort she's putting out. Starts getting to me, you know?? Blimey, if I didn't go and embarrass myself a THIRD time! Just don't 'ave the strength to 'andle that after spending the night at the Cottage last night, and expecting to tonight as well. A bloke's got 'is limits!"

Chief had remained quiet the entire time, til now. Considering all of that, he just had to ask, "wonder what the Warden's gonna say when he gets back."


End file.
